When I was a child, my grandfather gave me a bottle of canned pear.

 

Soft, delicate, sweet, refreshing and moisturizing are not enough to describe the taste of the bottle. I licked the last drop of juice left on the top of the tin bottle, and I still had no idea.

 

Canned goods at that time were absolutely rare, rarely seen, let alone eaten. Only visiting the sick or the old can you buy a bottle or two, add some apples or oranges, and carry them in a net pocket. That's a very prestigious gift. The canned pear I ate was bought by my relatives when they visited my grandfather. Grandpa tasted only a little, and almost all the tins came to my stomach.

 

Later, I went to the county to study. As soon as I entered the shop, I searched for the kind of canned food I had eaten. Occasionally, but I can't afford to buy it.

 

I made up my mind that when I grew up and earned money, I would buy a lot of canned pears to eat.

 

In the third year of college, Grandpa suffered from terminal illness. When Grandpa was dying, a letter from home let me go home to see Grandpa for the last time.

 

The last time I saw my grandfather, he was skin and bones, not human. His arm was still in plaster and bandage, hanging on his chest. Crazy and ferocious cancer cells spread everywhere, even on bones. Bones become like rotten straw ropes and break with a little effort. Once, Grandpa used wire to tie the handle of a bamboo chair. He was careless and broke his arm.

 

My face was full of tears.

 

Grandpa was so angry that when he heard the noise in the room, he tried to open his eyes to find me. His voice was completely hoarse. I had to stick my ear to his mouth to hear what he meant. His first sentence was "You're back!" The second sentence is to tell me not to cry.

 

I asked Grandpa if the pain was painful. He said that the pain was terrible and the injection was better. When I asked him what he wanted to eat, Grandpa shook his head laboriously.

 

Grandpa has not eaten for several days, and he can hardly drink water, which is completely maintained by dripping. Like an exhausted oil lamp, it will go out at any time.

 

When I thought that I would never see my grandfather again soon, I burst into tears again.

 

I don't want Grandpa to go, neither does Grandpa. However, in the face of illness, there is nothing we can do. We can only watch our relatives go away from you little by little. It is a kind of helplessness that calls heaven should not call earth powerless.

 

Within a few days, Grandpa left.

 

After Grandpa left, I found a can bottle in the small wooden cabinet in Grandpa's room, which contained small debris such as screw and iron.

 

I remember the bottle of canned poplar pears I had as a child. No wonder the cans were so delicious that I could not compete with any of the cans I ate later. It turned out that the bottle was full of grandpa's love for me. Grandpa himself did not want to eat, but symbolically tasted a small mouthful, and gave me a bottle of cans. If Grandpa is still there, I want to ask him, was the canned pear delicious? If it tastes good, I'll buy it for him when I earn money.

 

However, Grandpa failed to give me this opportunity, he could not wait until I earned money and then died. So, for me, that bottle of canned pear has another taste, that is regret.